A screw tightened here, a wire wrapped and taped there, and Doctor Rynkist was done. He closed the chestplate and climbed carefully down the ladder.
The firebox was already lit and working. Dr. Rynkist waved for his assistant to shovel in some more coal. Most roboticists these days worked with printed circuits, molded plastic, tiny microchips animated by Lithium-ion batteries; but not him. When the pressure was great enough, his creation would rumble wheezing and belching to life. Then, they would see. They would all understand that he wasn’t irrelevant. Hiram Rynkist’s steam was a force to be reckoned with.